Repercussions
by Sunset
Summary: Bobby and his mothers doctor have a talk.


"So how ya been?" She asked as she lowered herself onto the sofa next to him, and reached for her mug on the coffee table. She lifted it and let it float in teasingly in front of her lips, sipping only after she glanced at his face, appraising his reaction. His answer of 'ok' came to quickly and she took an extra sip, allowing herself another moment to watch him. Tucking her legs up underneath her, she settled the cup in her lap and cocked an eyebrow at him. "Just ok?"  
  
"Yeah." He paused, his mouth open slightly, as if he was about to continue speaking. He crossed his legs and pulled at the crease of his pants, avoiding her eyes, as he thought of the words he wanted to use. "Yeah." He repeated. "You know. . . it's. . . hard for it to be better than ok." She could tell he wasn't happy with the statement, but he didn't elaborate, and his hand traveled down to the cuff of his pants. His index finger hooked the cuff and flipped it back and forth.  
  
She twisted herself in a stretch, rolled her head back and forth twice, then settled herself deeper into the sofa. "Had any interesting cases lately?" She asked casually, conversationally.  
  
He twitched. And then shifted uncomfortably, uncrossed and recrossed his legs. "Uh. . ." he paused, and closed his eyes briefly. "Yeah. We busted a man for stealing the brain of a corpse, and ." she held up her hand to stop him.  
  
"Sorry. Stole the brain of a corpse?" He nodded as an answer, smiling slightly at the look of utter disbelief on her face. She laid out her hand out in a 'go on' gesture.  
  
"And an insurance scam involving homeless people." His right arm rested on the armrest of the sofa and his fingers jumped in a drumming motion, each taped twice before they came to rest again. He seemed unaware he was doing this.  
  
"Sounds interesting." She encouraged.  
  
"And . . . uh . . .just recently . . .we had one case . . . a kid . . .a boy . . .took Cyanide. . ." He stopped with that, letting the sentence hang in midair.  
  
"Cyanide?" She sat up straighter, leaning slightly toward him.  
  
"Yeah. He uh..well, he didn't die in my arms, but. . ." again he stopped without finishing.  
  
She sat silently, waiting for him to continue.  
  
Abandoning the pants cuff, he raised his hands and rubbed his eyes. "Another one.we arrested an ophthalmologist for performing unnecessary, harmful, surgery on patients." She stayed silent, thinking this was what he'd been getting to all along, and she didn't want him to stop now. "He. . ." he looked up and met her eyes, "he's a schizophrenic, the doctor is, and the patients. . .the people he was operating on, they were schizophrenic's, too." Another pause. "He thought that if he could fix the eyes, cut off some of the sensors, that he could cure them. Cure himself."  
  
Her office was quiet as they sat, each contemplating the idea of curing schizophrenia. She pushed it to the back of her mind; she was more interested in him right now. "How did you feel about that?"  
  
He smiled and looked up at her again. "Typical shrink question."  
  
She returned his smile. "There's a reason we ask it." He cast his eyes downward, and the smile slipped off his face. "Bobby." She waited until he looked at her again. "Answer the question."  
  
He didn't. He avoided, sidestepped, and outright ignored it. "My mom told me that you're considering new meds. Something new on the market?"  
  
She sighed inwardly, but had expected him to change subject. "Yes. It's had good results in the trials, very little side effects."  
  
He only nodded as acknowledgement. She waited, and when he didn't begin a new track of conversation, she did. "How's Alex?"  
  
Bobby smiled at the thought of his partner. "She's good." He nodded in agreement with himself and repeated. "She's good."  
  
"How did she feel about the ophthalmologist?"  
  
Bobby rolled his eyes at the obvious backtracking. "Ok. Ok." He stretched his arms out over his head and toward his back. "The ophthalmologist." He let his arms fall into his lap and took a deep breath before he spoke. "I wish he'd been right."  
  
"But he wasn't."  
  
"No. It was wishful thinking on his part." He was back to avoiding her eyes, playing with the cuff of his pant leg again.  
  
"Like Van Gough cutting off his ear."  
  
"Yes. Exactly that. I think that's where he got the idea from in the first place."  
  
It was her turn to nod but not say anything, leaving the conversation his to continue. Bobby shrugged. "He was misguided. The disease clouded his judgment."  
  
"As it's wont to do." She interjected.  
  
"It was to easy." He paused for a moment, thinking. He looked at her, and she saw something in his eyes she'd never seen in all the time she'd known him: disappointment.  
  
She could tell he was done with that subject. He'd said all he needed to say, at least for the time being. He did this every time she saw him. He'd start with a subject, get a little out of his system, letting the rest eat away at him till the next week, or sometimes the week after. When he did let it out, it was either ranting and pacing, or with a hand rubbing his eyes, in a voice so low she had trouble hearing him.  
  
It'd been about a year since these informal sessions had started. She'd been his mother's doctor for about four months when she had met Bobby during one of his weekly visits. The first few of these conversations had been strictly about his mother and her treatment, until she happened to catch sight of his side arm. When he recognized the beginnings of panic in her eyes, he'd flashed his badge, explaining he was one of the good guys. Always having been fascinated by the criminal mind, she'd asked him about his work, and thus began these weekly "sessions".  
  
Remembering that first time he'd unloaded, she asked: "Has Rankin gone to trial yet?"  
  
The relief he felt at the conversations new subject showed in his shoulders, the way they suddenly fell, as if the metaphorical world had been lifted from them.  
  
"Next week." He answered.  
  
"Have the nightmares stopped?"  
  
Bobby stared at the floor for a moment. "Yeah. They finally did."  
  
She knew him to well; knew that he was lying. She gave him that look that only psychiatrists and women could do, and do correctly. He smiled at her, smiling at getting caught, "Well, once in a while I have one..but mostly they've stopped."  
  
"How much is once in a while?"  
  
"Every couple of weeks."  
  
"Are they the same?"  
  
Nodding, Bobby related the sequence, the dream playing out inside his mind. "I get there, and piss Rankin off, push him over. He shoots, and. . . .in slow motion. . . the kids . . . dying. . . I've gone to see Tessa and the kids a couple of times. They. . . they still don't understand, the kids don't. But Tessa. . . Tessa's mad as hell." Bobby shook his head in half admiration, half bewilderment "But she still loves him."  
  
The doctor smiled, understanding. "And Nicole? Anything new in her case?" She'd said it intentionally, knowing it was one of his sore spots. After a moment, Bobby's lips parted in the beginning of an answer, when his cell phone rang. The doctor could see the relief wash over his face as he looked at her and shrugged while digging into his jacket pocket.  
  
"Goren." He answered into the phone. He nodded a few times then said: "Ok. Call Detective Eames, tell her that I'm on my way." He pushed a button, ending the call and looked again to the doctor, an apologetic look in his eyes. "Gotta go. Another bad guy needs catching."  
  
The doctor smiled, bad guy/good guy, a little joke the between the two of them. Bobby stood, and she followed suit, placing her coffee cup back down on the table. "Duty calls." She told him. "It was good to see you." She followed him to her office door, and stood just inside as he stepped into the corridor.  
  
Bobby nodded; he never really knew what to say at the end of their conversations. He always settled on the most basic thing. "Thanks Doctor."  
  
"Anytime, Bobby." Again, he nodded, turned and walked away. 


End file.
